Christophe's TerribleHorrible NoGood VeryBad Day
by princessbelle212
Summary: Series of drabbles involving the tragedies Christophe faces as a child, the first of which involves a giraffe and many many bullets. Warnings for a dirty little boy, violence, death, swearing, and improper use of the French language. Potential Gregstophe


**a/n: this is just a short drabble about my headcanon for Christophe as he was growing up. This is the only one I have written, but I may add chapters of other random scenes if I get around to writing them. If that's the case, the rating will likely go up, as Christophe, at least in my opinion, turns into a very rascally young man. Anyway, this first bit is a short look at one of the first horrors he witnessed as a boy. It takes place in Africa, which I know less about than I would like, so please forgive any errors. Also I don't speak French so the phrases may also be wrong.**

The sun was the hottest it had been in a long time. Christophe liked the heat though, it turned his skin brown and hard and he got to play in the stream all day with his giraffe, Rafi. He was streaked with mud, clutching his shovel in one hand and holding onto Rafi's neck with the other, staring blankly up at the sun as his six-year-old mind contemplated the mysteries of the universe.

He'd spent the better part of a month trying to catch her, setting out traps like his father showed him, and eventually she'd been snared. Then, it had been another four months before she was docile enough to trust him, but once she did they became fast friends, Christophe's unclean, animalistic nature matching well with hers.

He could see the village from his perch, only a hundred meters away, and bustling with activity. He could hear the deep voice of his father rumbling orders, and soldiers and villagers hurried to do his bidding. Christophe smiled to himself, scrubbing a dirty, chubby hand over his eyes, and dozed off into a content sleep, warm under the sun and comfortable on Rafi's back.

An explosion rent the silence of his mind. The world tilted, and he slid off of his perch, landing heavily in the caked dirt. A horrible noise met his ears, and he searched for the source before he realized it was Rafi.

Slinging his shovel into the holder on his back, he darted around to Rafi's head, caressing her forelock gently as she collapsed onto her knees, still making the bleating sound. Too late, Christophe spotted the bloody hole in her neck, still spilling blood.

Tears welled in his eyes. "Non, non non non," he whispered, throwing his arms around Rafi's neck as he hid his face. A choked sob escaped him, before he remembered that real boys never cried.

He didn't want to leave her side, even as her eyes closed and he felt the pulse in her neck fade to nothing. Silent tears pouring down his face, he felt like he was going to be sick, until an overwhelming numbness passed over him, and his knees gave way. He fell to the ground next to her, still holding on for what seemed like an eternity.

His grief was interrupted, though, by a bullet sent flying over his head, so close that he could feel his hair standing on end. Dimly, he registered the sounds of shouting coming from the village, shouting and gunshots. Fear welled up, transforming the paralyzing sorrow into a need for action. He had to find Papa; then he'd be safe.

He sprinted into the village, into a scene of chaos. A group of men- white, and out of place- were marching through the street, searching, and shooting the terrified villagers whenever one dared to show their head. Christophe's eyes widened, the terror escalating, and he darted behind one of the huts, breathing heavily.

"Christophe?" his favorite voice in the world reached his ears, and he turned to throw his arms around the solid thigh of his father, hiding his face in his hip.

"Papi," Christophe said, his voice trembling with fear and supressed tears. "Ce qui se passe? Qui sont ces hommes?" (Daddy, what's going on? who are those men?)

"Ils sont méchants, mon petit chou," (they're bad guys, darling)his father whispered to him, a strong hand reaching down to pat Christophe on the head. "J'ai besoin de toi à courir et à trouver maman. Va vite!" (I need you to run and find Mommy. Hurry)

He shoved Christophe behind him, and stepped out into the street. Without his presence, Christophe stood rooted to the spot, too terrified to move and follow his orders. He wanted to stay by his father. "Papa," he hissed, "revenez." (Daddy, come back)

But his father paid him no mind, instead stepping out into the street, facing down the line of bad men. He said something, shouted at them in some guttural language that Christophe couldn't understand, hand going to his belt as one of the men answered. Papa gestured wildly, his voice pleading, and Christophe barely had time to scream out a warning before one of the men in the corner raised his rifle and shot Papa in the chest.

The world stilled, time frozen in a moment of sheer horror. It looked like a slow motion flip book, the sort of thing his mother tried to entertain him with, as his father flew back from the impact, his body bending back unnaturally until he fell in a broken heap to the earth.

The shockwave that seemed to travel through the ground jolted Christophe back into reality, and a pure, unadulterated rage filled him. His gaze locked on the man who was still putting his gun back into place.

He dashed out into the street, heading straight for his father, who was coughing up blood, still trying to sit up.

"Christophe," he choked out. "Courez." (run)

Hands shaking, Christophe ignored his request, but crouched behind him and pulled the gun from his hand. He aimed it at the killer, and as he exhaled, his hands went steady.

"Non, Christophe," his father said, a look of pure panic on his face. "Courez."

It was easy, pulling the trigger. It was just like hunting, shooting down some deer or hare or whatever game they'd had their mind set on. The soldier went down, a bullet hole through his neck, and Christophe snarled in triumph, the edges of his vision turning red, and he trained the gun on another soldier, about to pull the trigger, when he felt a strong grip on his wrist.

"Ce n'est pas ton combat," (this isn't your fight) his father managed, his breathing fading to a wheeze. "Courez."

At last Christophe obeyed him, dropping the gun from numb fingers, and ran back behind a hut, weaving an unpatterned line to avoid the bullets being sent his way, until he found one of his holes and jumped down it, running through the network of his tunnels until he reached the one under his house.

"Maman," he screamed, "maman!"


End file.
